


we don't sleep when the sun goes down

by izzybusiness



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/pseuds/izzybusiness
Summary: “Okay, will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Cartman finally yells, clearly at the end of his tether. “So, what, everyone here got struck by lightning and now you’ve got superpowers like some kind of all-gay Justice League?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> _Misfits_ AU.

Craig doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a nice day and simultaneously been in a fouler mood. The air outside is crisp and cool, the sky a perfect cloudless blue. The usually empty streets of their small town are bustling and full of life, the citizens of South Park taking advantage of such rare weather by spending the morning basking in the sunshine.

Unfortunately for Craig, the closest he gets to experiencing such a rarity is through the view from the windows of the Park County Community Center. 

It is, apparently, not enough that he’s standing here at nine in the fucking morning on the second week of his summer vacation. By some cruel twist of fate, he also happens to be surrounded by the four biggest idiots in town, all of them dressed in obnoxiously bright orange jumpsuits that make them seem like a bunch of rejects from one of those Lifetime movies.

“Alright, listen up.” Mr. Feegan’s booming call echoes throughout the main hall, and he claps his hands together as he paces in front of the disinterested teens, possibly in an act of self-importance. “As the new chairman of the community center, I have been tasked with helping you with your rehabilitation.” Here he pauses and surveys them all sternly. “Drug pushing is a serious matter, boys. I hope you understand that by now.”

Kyle lets out an indignant noise and rolls his eyes in frustration. “Oh, for the love of—look, how many times do we have to tell you?” he gripes, cocking his hip. Craig’s never been into redheads, but he thinks Kyle might be fun to fuck, especially when he’s angry. “We aren’t selling drugs!”

“Yeah, man,” Cartman chimes in. He’s staring up at Mr. Feegan beseechingly, like that doe-eyed act he pulls on his mom works on anyone else. “We didn’t even know that shit wasn’t legal in America when we bought it. If you’re gonna blame anyone, blame that Mexican dude who sold it to us.”

“Ignorance is not an excuse, Eric.” The life preserver around Mr. Feegan’s neck bobs up and down whenever he talks, and Craig watches it move in an eerie sort of fascination. “Now, if you boys lived a healthy lifestyle like I do, you wouldn’t need any of these so-called ‘synthetic drugs,’” he says, making air quotations around the last two words. “But as it is, the South Park City Council thinks that a summer of community service will do you some good.”

“Aw, Mr. Feegan, do we have to?” Stan’s whiny tone rings out, and it makes Craig’s temple throb. “Football season starts in August and I need the practice.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you went off the deep end into drug addiction,” Mr. Feegan replies, practically puffing out his chest with pride. “If my son, Larry, was still alive, I would tell him, ‘Being a vegan is better than being high!’”

“For the last time, we are not addicted to drugs!” Kyle yells, but his persistent objection goes ignored by the adult standing in front of him.

Mr. Feegan points at a pile of dirty buckets and old paintbrushes stacked on top of each other by the entrance. “You better get to work,” he tells them. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” With that, he disappears out the door, taking his life vest along with him. 

Unsurprisingly, the five boys don’t exactly spring into action once they’re alone. Stan walks over to the bleachers and slumps down onto the wooden seat, a dejected expression on his face. Craig thinks he would feel sorry for him if this whole mess wasn’t partially his fault in the first place.

“This sucks,” Stan announces unnecessarily. “I can’t believe we have to spend the next two months taking orders from a guy who wears a fucking inflated life vest around his neck.”

“It’s the outfits that get me.” Kyle picks at the fabric of the jumpsuit he’s wearing, lips curled in distaste like the whole ensemble has personally offended him somehow. “I mean, what sitcom did they steal this idea from?”

“They’re not that bad,” Kenny argues, speaking up for the first time. He’s leaning against the far right wall, standing underneath the open window. The sunlight that’s streaming in hits his blonde hair, lighting up his whole body like he’s on fire.

“Shut up, Kenny,” Cartman retorts, taking a seat next to Stan. In their sophomore year, Cartman had inexplicably undergone a massive growth spurt, his childhood obesity manifesting itself in the six inches of height he’d suddenly gained. The jumpsuit he has on is stretched tight across his shoulders, the cuffs of the bottoms falling barely above his ankles. “Only because this is all you could afford to wear in elementary school.”

Craig remembers Kenny’s infamous orange parka with more clarity than strictly necessary. He also recalls being one of the few kids who could actually understand what Kenny was saying until he stopped wearing it altogether. Not that it matters; he shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

Kenny opens his mouth to comment, an amused gleam in his eye and a hint of a smirk pulling at one corner of his lips, and it’s at this point that Craig decides that he’s basically had enough.

“Has it ever occurred to you that selling anything on the black market is a bad idea?” he asks loudly, sarcasm seeping its way into every inch of his tone, interrupting everyone’s conversations. “Just putting that out there.” 

It’s the first thing Craig’s said all morning, and his words get the precise reaction he was hoping for. There’s a brief silence that falls around the room, and Craig uses the momentary pause to take in the range of facial expressions surrounding him. Kyle’s obviously furious, Stan’s is a mix of surprise and indignation, and Cartman just seems pissed off. For his own part, Kenny still looks amused, like he finds Craig’s obvious irritation hilarious for some reason.

Craig’s pretty good at reading people; he always has been. For example, the reason Stan is so upset is because Marsh isn’t used to having people dislike him. He’s one of those stereotypically popular jocks, the kind who gets along with everyone. Ironically, this is why Craig can’t stand him.

“Seriously, dude, we didn’t know that stuff wasn’t legal when we sold it to you,” Stan instantly responds, throwing his hands up defensively. “We said we were sorry!” 

Craig proceeds to give Marsh a look so flat, ancient civilizations would probably try to navigate it and fall off its edge. “Because being sorry is totally going to excuse the fact that you took my birthday money _again_.”

Cartman pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, exasperation radiating off him. “Goddammit, Craig, we got you your money back this time. What more do you want?”

“Yeah, dude, do you want us to leave you alone from now on?” Kyle deadpans, and for someone who is supposed to be at the top of their class, Broflovski can be really fucking dense. 

Craig lifts an eyebrow cooly. “Yes.” 

“Fine, Craig, let’s just paint those stupid benches and then we’ll leave you alone,” Stan gripes, obviously at a loss with himself. Craig doesn’t bother holding his breath waiting for that to happen. Something he’s come to realize about his life is that it never goes how he wishes it would.

The benches they’re working on are a group of derelict, graffitied structures clustered around the edge of the park near the community center. Overhead, the sun is shining, birds are singing, and Craig spends the next two hours slapping down paint, heat warming his back every time he bends down.

He’s kneeling on the ground, crouching as he tries to scrape gum from the underside of the seat while simultaneously hating his life, when a shadow falls over him. “Need any help?” a suspiciously cheerful voice asks, and, sadly, Craig would know it anywhere.

He lifts his head, only to find McCormick beaming down at him. He’s shrugged out of his jumpsuit and tied the long sleeves around his waist, and dressed in only his undershirt and the baggy track bottoms, he looks almost attractive. Craig instantly hates that he noticed.

Craig doesn’t move from his spot and meets Kenny’s stare straight-on. “Didn’t you just promise to leave me alone forever?”

Kenny doesn’t avert his gaze, his beam unwavering. “Technically, only _they_ promised to do that,” he replies, jabbing a thumb in the direction of his friends and leaning forward conspiratorially. “Besides, you seem like you need the help,” he adds, eyeing Craig’s half-assed work. 

Craig feels a flash of irritation run through his body. “Because I’m sure you’re so good at painting…” He glances at the pristinely coated bench next to his, and his insult trails off. “How the fuck did you do that so quickly?” Craig tries to keep his obvious astonishment from showing, but from the way Kenny’s smile widens, he probably fails.

“Oh, the skills working shitty summer jobs will give you,” Kenny singsongs, moving over to Craig’s other side and brandishing his brush at him. “Let’s get cracking, Tucker,” he says, and despite trying not to, Craig smiles.

—

Three benches down, Kyle swipes a hand down his cheeks, wiping sweat from them as he refills his paint can, dipping his brush into the mixture and wringing it dry. There’s a neat line of white streaks painted along the bench in front of him, and he carefully covers up a few dark spots before moving on. 

“How’s Wendy doing?” he asks Stan, cutting into his tirade about how shitty Craig is as a person. Kyle loves his best friend a lot, but his almost burning need to be liked by everyone can be grating. Besides, they did kind of get Craig into this mess. “Stanford, right?” he goes on, failing to keep the jealously from his inquiry.

Before Stan can reply, Cartman gets a word in. “Isn’t it weird that your girlfriend’s in summer school?” Unlike the rest of them, Cartman had quickly given up all pretense of working after the first fifteen minutes. He’s been sitting on the ground ever since, flicking paint at Kyle. Kyle would be more irritated by this if it wasn’t also totally expected of him. “I always thought she was smarter than that.”

“It’s a pre-college program, fatass,” Kyle immediately counters, snorting derisively. Trust Cartman to be unfamiliar with the fundamentals of preparing for higher education. “And it’s where I’d be right now if it wasn’t for you and your bullshit ideas.” 

Objectively, Kyle knows that he’s as much at fault here as the rest of his friends. Except for Craig, obviously, and possibly Kenny, who always just ends up along for the ride. He’s not too worried about this affecting his chances of getting into an Ivy League school, either. The adults in town are stupid enough to have forgotten about this whole thing by the time September rolls around.

Cartman scoffs and mockingly puts a hand on top of his heart. “You wound me, Jew. Tell me again how boring your life would be without me in it.”

Stan gapes at him in confusion and Kyle can feel the tips of his ears burn in embarrassment. Kyle had told Cartman that _once_ , at a party thrown by Token, when Kyle was too tipsy to know any better. Cartman had been standing by the bar, underneath all these paper lanterns, not drinking. It had seemed like such an honest statement at the time, and sometimes Kyle thinks about the way Cartman smiled in reply, more brilliant than all the lights surrounding him.

That doesn’t cancel the fact that he hates him right now for even bringing it up. “You wish, fatass,” he says dismissively, and Cartman’s gaze narrows challengingly. It’s sort of unusual, but there are moments he actually looks forward to their arguments. It’s an interesting way of getting their aggression out. 

Unfortunately for him, Mr. Feegan chooses that exact moment to reappear. “Nice work, boys,” he says, his voice startling Craig and Kenny out of their little bubble, causing them to spin around and blink at him. Kyle hadn’t even noticed Kenny walk over there, but he’s not exactly shocked. Kenny can be pretty unrelenting when he’s got a crush. “Keep it up, and soon this whole drug addiction will be a thing of the past.”

“We do not have a drug addiction!” Kyle shouts, practically stamping his foot in frustration. He’s tired of repeating this and tired of being ignored. “And if we did, this would not help us at all!”

He might as well have been absent for all the attention that Mr. Feegan pays to his sentiment. “Next, you’re going to be picking up—” But whatever instructions he’s about to give is drowned out by the noise of an earsplitting crash. 

Without warning, a huge block of ice falls from the sky, landing on top of a parked car and smashing its windshield. The impact sends shards of ice and glass flying through the air, the car alarm going off repeatedly, and Kyle sees Kenny grab onto Craig’s wrist and instinctively pull him out of the range of fire.

“That’s my fucking car!” Mr. Feegan exclaims, his eyeballs practically popping out of his skull as he races towards it. Cartman begins to laugh tauntingly, pointing a finger at him in glee, but then another block of hail lands next to him and explodes, dousing everyone in freezing water.

“What the fuck is that?” Stan’s exclamation is cut off by the ongoing chaos around them, but Kyle turns his head towards the rapidly darkening sky, watching as a swirling mass of black and gray clouds hurtle across the atmosphere, swallowing up the remaining sunlight.

“Okay, everyone get into the main building now!” Mr. Feegan yells, herding them all in the direction of the center’s doors.

The group rushes towards the entrance, skittering along the wet pavement and ducking every so often to avoid getting hit by the falling hail. The entire area seems to be covered in long, dark shadows, and Kyle registers the pounding of his own heart, Craig’s eyes open uncharacteristically wide in alarm, Kenny reaching for the door handle.

Then with a bang so loud that it rattles the entire town, shaking South Park to its core, Kyle feels his body being thrown backwards into the open space, something like electricity shooting throughout his skin, wrapping itself around his veins. He hears Stan cry out, sounding warped and twisted, then Kyle’s back hits the ground and he falls unconscious.

—

It’s the slow, steady pulse of pain coming from the base of his skull that eventually shakes Craig into awakening. He forces his eyes open and stares up at the weak sunlight filtering across the sky like it had never been gone in the first place. He hears a groan from his right, and then Stan is pushing himself into a sitting position, rubbing the side of his face tiredly.

“What just happened?” Stan blinks blearily, as if trying to take in the surrounding wreckage. The only remnants of whatever went down are the sirens coming from destroyed cars parked nearby, the hail already melting away into puddles of water.

“We blacked out,” Cartman replies, sitting up as well. He shakes his hair out and loose droplets of moisture come flying in all directions. “Where’s the Jew?” It might just be the blow to his head, but Craig thinks he hears a faint thread of concern stitched beneath his words.

“Right here, fatass,” says Kyle’s voice, coming from somewhere behind Craig. “Is everyone okay?”

“I’ve had worse.” Kenny’s next to Craig, his arm thrown across his face, shielding it from the glare of the sun. Craig just lets out a noncommittal grunt in response and makes to get up.

“Is he dead?” Cartman promptly asks, and they all turn to survey their immobile supervisor lying on the ground a few feet in front of them, his life preserver thrown off by the force of his fall. “Does this mean we can leave?” 

“Cartman!” Kyle hisses, reprimanding him, but it’s at that moment that Mr. Feegan rouses from his state, jerking upwards and barking out, “Vegans!” 

He reaches out and grabs onto his life vest, his grip inhumanly tight as he pulls it over his neck again. Craig trades uneasy glances with Broflovski, of all people, and he swears Mr. Feegan’s eyes flicker and glow for a second before returning back to normal.

“Are you boys alright?” he inquires briskly, but everyone is still too weirded out by him to respond properly. “Non-vegans should be shot!” he suddenly shouts, his voice coming out robotic and harsh, like he’s speaking through a megaphone.

“Great,” Stan begins slowly, drawing the word out. There’s something distinctly creepy about how Mr. Feegan is acting, but Craig’s exhausted enough to just pin it down as another one of his quirks. “Can we go now?”

For a millisecond, Mr. Feegan’s expression morphs into one of utter anger, his features contorting into a mask that’s almost animalistic, but it’s gone as quickly as it had appeared, smoothing back into his usual neutral glance. Craig is officially creeped out. 

“Yes, you are,” Mr. Feegan informs them. “But I expect everyone back here tomorrow morning.”

“Freak!” Cartman calls out after him as they trudge back into the building. Craig sincerely hopes he’s simply imagining the way Mr. Feegan’s fist clenches tightly around the tail of his life vest as they pass.

Back in the locker room where they’d stashed their things earlier, Craig slips out of his jumpsuit, trying to ignore the annoying buzzing sound reverberating inside his mind. He tugs his T-shirt on, and he distinctly hears Cartman comment, “Damn, Tucker isn’t half-bad. Though with his personality, he’s probably crap in bed.”

“What did you say?” Craig whirls around and rounds on Cartman, a hateful scowl twisting his mouth. “You’re one to talk about having a shitty personality,” he growls darkly. It’s times like these that he sorely misses being able to shoot sparks from his eyes. “And who the fuck are you talking to?”

But Cartman just stares at him in complete and utter disbelief, like Craig’s magically sprouted an extra pair of feet. “I—what? I didn’t say anything!”

Craig glares back at him. “I fucking heard you,” he insists, but looking around at the shocked expressions on everyone else’s faces, a hint of doubt starts creeping into his insides.

“He didn’t say anything, dude,” Kyle confirms from his spot on the other side of the room. “I was standing right here.”

Kenny turns to him, his brow cocked in concern. “I didn’t hear anything, either.”

The strange whirring inside Craig’s brain is getting stronger and more potent, and he shakes his head in an attempt to clear his mind. 

“Whatever,” he grumbles instead, slamming the locker door shut. “I’m out of here,” he adds, stalking from the room and leaving everyone to their confusion.

When Craig gets home, he practically kicks his door open and immediately makes a beeline for Stripe’s cage. 

“Hi,” he says, and instantly feels stupid for talking to his guinea pig. But with Token and Clyde away at some football camp for the summer, it’s not like Craig’s got a whole lot of options left. There’s Tweek, of course, but he’s always busy working, and Craig’s not sure if he’ll ever be ready to discuss other guys with his ex-boyfriend.

He crouches down and observes his pet. Stripe’s lying back on a bale of hay and he seems oddly at peace. Not for the first time, Craig wishes he could trade places with him. 

“Today’s been weird,” he continues, and it’s a total fucking understatement. His wrist still burns with the press of Kenny’s skin on his, his gaze equally as intense as he pulled Craig out of harm’s way.

Craig gets to his feet and walks to the small side table where he keeps Stripe’s food, and he very clearly hears a deep, growling voice go, _Try being stuck in a cage all day and then talk to me about feeling weird._

Craig feels the hair at the back of his neck stand on end, and his eyes widen in disbelief, a small hint of fear seeping its way into his gut. He turns around slowly, trying to locate the source of the talking, but the only other life form in the room aside from him is Stripe. Is he—that was Stripe’s voice he just heard. He can read his guinea pig’s mind. What the fuck?

“Uh, Stripe?” Craig casually inches closer to his pet’s cage, suddenly feeling a million times more self-conscious about the whole thing. “You want some food?” he asks, already bracing himself. 

He’s not disappointed. _No shit, Sherlock_ , Stripe deadpans, and Craig barely has time to marvel over the fact that his guinea pig has apparently inherited his personality before Stripe is rolling onto his stomach and bounding towards Craig, sniffing at him from the bars of his cage.

Somewhat in a daze, Craig fills Stripe’s bowl, makes his way to his bed, and collapses on it facedown. Then he closes his eyes and tries his best not to think about anything.

—

Video game night is a more subdued affair than usual, which is hardly surprising considering that they almost died earlier in the day. Kenny goes first, citing the long walk home as his excuse, but Kyle swears he sees Kenny throw him a not-so-subtle wink as he leaves. He doesn’t really want to process the implications of that right now.

He’s sitting next to Cartman on the couch in his basement, his fingers flying over the buttons of his controller. When Cartman’s character gets killed for the fourth time in a row, Kyle sighs and shoots him an annoyed glare, surprised to find Cartman watching him carefully, an unfathomable expression on his face.

“It’s not fun when you let me win, you know,” Kyle says, setting the controller down as his character stands over Cartman’s in victory. 

Cartman immediately comes back to himself and shakes his head. “Please, bitch,” he snorts, waving a hand at Kyle dismissively. “Like I’d be nice enough to do that for you.”

Kyle scoffs, and Cartman visibly hesitates, his gaze trained on the floor. He’s obviously tense about something, and Kyle waits patiently for him to let it out. Then in a rush, Cartman asks, “So, uh, you okay?” 

Kyle’s eyebrows rise until they’re partially obscured by the hair on his forehead. He hadn’t been expecting that. “What do you mean?”

“Like,” Cartman starts, then he abruptly stops, clearly struggling with his innate propensity for being an uncaring douchebag, and he groans in frustration. “Ugh, like, are you okay? You know, after hitting your head?” 

There’s a beat of silence while Kyle waits for the punchline, for the racial slur, _anything_. But instead he gets Cartman looking at him questioningly and almost shy, like he actually gives a shit this time around but he doesn’t want Kyle to notice. This makes Kyle’s heart lurch into his stomach, and it’s not an altogether unpleasant sensation. 

“I’m fine, fatass,” he replies, the former-insult-turned-nickname coming out softer than he’s used to. “Thanks for asking.” 

“Whatever,” Cartman grumbles, but he exhales, all the tension draining away from his body. He slumps back onto the cushions, sounding a lot more like his usual self. “I just don’t want you to go into diabetic shock, or whatever else diseases your people have.”

Kyle rolls his eyes. So much for that moment being anything. “You can’t go into diabetic shock from hitting your head.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Cartman picks up his controller and tips it in the direction of the screen. “Am I gonna kick your ass now or what?” 

“I’d like to see you try,” Kyle fires back, but he’s still smiling at Cartman brightly, the edges of his lips curled upwards helplessly, and Cartman copies the gesture for a moment before retuning his attention to the game.

—

Stan leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface of his computer table as he waits for Wendy to go online. The time difference has made their bi-weekly Skype dates a bitch to schedule, so he ends up missing out on video game night at Cartman’s a lot. 

He doesn’t care what the guys say; he’s totally not whipped. Though he will admit that his usual rebuttal of them being jealous because he’s got a hot girlfriend would have more of an impact if any of them were actually interested in girls, but whatever.

While waiting, he lets his mind drift away, still trying to process that afternoon’s strange events. Ever since he regained consciousness, Stan’s been getting these quick flashes every now and then, like he’s seeing things in front of him that aren’t really there.

Wendy’s picture pops up onscreen, the sound of her incoming call bringing Stan back to the present. He clicks on the green button and the screen pans out, Wendy grinning at him from over a thousand miles away.

“Hey, Stan,” she greets him, beaming excitedly. The wall behind her is covered in posters and calendars, and he’s somewhat gratified to find a picture of the two of them taped to the headboard of her twin bed. 

“Hey, Wends,” Stan returns, settling into his seat. From previous experience, he knows he’s going to be here a while. “How’s college going?” 

Wendy immediately launches into a funny story about this thing that happened in one of her classes, her smile vivid and the air around her practically bubbling with energy. Stan drinks it all in, laughing at the punchline and sympathizing with her over one of her professors who apparently hates people from Colorado.

“Then, okay, this is really funny,” Wendy starts, pausing for air before jumping back into her tale. “I was walking back from the library with Diego, and—”

Stan’s ears pick up on the unfamiliar, _masculine_ name and he sits up. “Wait, who’s Diego?” he demands, scooting forward in apprehension. Cartman always rags on him for being the jealous type, but sue him. It’s a miracle Wendy’s still dating him in the first place.

Wendy visibly sighs, already familiar with her boyfriend’s antics. “He’s just a friend, Stan,” she tells him, pursing her lips. “He’s on exchange from Mexico. It’s amazing, he speaks four languages and—”

“Did you tell him you had a boyfriend?” Stan presses, unwilling to imagine the thirty different ways this Diego guy could charm Wendy into running away with him.

“Not this again,” Wendy mutters under her breath. “Yes, I told him, and as a matter of fact, he has a boyfriend, too!” 

“Oh.” Stan blinks at her, embarrassed. He feels like the complete and total idiot he is. 

“Is this going to happen every time I talk to a boy?” Wendy asks him, her eyes flashing. “I am so sick of having to defend myself to you! It’s like you don’t trust me at all. Sometimes I wonder if this is even working out.”

“Wendy, no—” Stan begins, but everything around him has suddenly gone still, frozen in time like someone’s just pressed pause. 

Instantly, like a movie being rewinded, Stan watches the events of the last ten minutes flash past him in reverse, everything blurring into one huge blend of color and sound. Before he knows it, Stan’s sitting back in his chair, his computer announcing Wendy’s incoming call.

Stan swivels from side to side, and he surveys his room, trying to feel as much of it as possible. It all seems to be exactly like how he remembers, so that rules out the possibility of entering some alternate universe. 

The beeping onscreen reminds him of Wendy’s imminent call, the time stamp at the corner of his desktop informing him that it’s ten minutes ago. It’s all happening again. He’s somehow turned back time. Holy shit.

Shakily, he presses the green button on Wendy’s alert and watches as the screen expands once again. Without waiting for her to start, Stan says, “Wends, I just want you to know that I trust you no matter what,” and a proud grin spreads across his girlfriend’s face.

The weirdness of it aside, at least whatever the fuck just happened is useful.

—

When Kyle arrives at the community center the next morning, it’s to find the main hall packed with fresh produce. There’s a long table set up in the middle of the basketball court, bowls, boxes, a plate of what appears to be kidney beans, and various vegetables all piled on top of it.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do with this?” Cartman demands, glaring at the vegetables like they’ve personally offended him. Knowing his complete disregard for anything healthy, they probably have.

In the midst of all the greenery is Mr. Feegan, a lot more cheerful and less creepy than the day before. “Hurry up, boys,” he calls out to Kenny and Craig, who have just entered the room. 

To Kyle’s bemusement, Craig is actually _blushing_. That’s something he never thought he’d get to see. He sends Kenny a mental high-five as they pass, but for some reason, Craig immediately snaps his head in his direction, like Kyle had called his name out loud.

“Uh, what exactly are we supposed to do with all this?” Kyle asks Mr. Feegan dubiously, poking at a sack of potatoes spilling out across the surface of the table.

Mr. Feegan is practically buzzing with excitement, energy expelling from him in waves as he exclaims, “You’re going to be making vegan hotdogs to sell at next week’s Park County Fair!” 

The response to his announcement is less than stellar. Kenny wrinkles his nose, Stan groans, and Cartman’s mouth drops open in distaste. “Dude, no one is gonna buy that shit,” Cartman says, and for once, Kyle is inclined to agree with him.

Like a switch flicking, Mr. Feegan suddenly stands ramrod straight, his back tensing. “Being dead is better than not being vegan!” he cries in that same robotic tone. He rolls his shoulders back, his body twitching with jerky movements for a second longer, then he returns to his old self. From his peripheral, Kyle sees Craig take a step back in alarm. “I suggest you get changed so you can begin working.” Then he spins on his heels and walks out the door.

“There’s something wrong with him,” Kyle declares as the five of them make their way into the locker room. 

“Relax, dude, Mr. Feegan’s always been weird,” Stan tells him, turning around and slipping his jumpsuit on. “Trust me, Shelly and I had to spend the weekend at their house once.”

“No, really, Stan, he’s not acting normal!” Kyle tries to protest, because while Stan may be his best friend, he’s also totally oblivious about the most obvious things. But then Cartman interrupts him by launching into a tirade about how much he despises vegetables, and Kyle grits his teeth together in frustration. 

After leaving Cartman’s, Kyle had spent the rest of the night doing research on electrical storms. There wasn’t much information online, but he had chanced upon some online forum on a website dedicated to the supernatural, detailing the various messed up things that started happening to people after getting struck by lightning.

Kyle’s pretty skeptical when it comes to matters unproved by science most of the time, but after witnessing Mr. Feegan’s random voice changes and glowing eyes, he’s willing to suspend a bit of disbelief.

“Seriously, guys, there’s something wrong going on here.” Kyle unhooks his jumpsuit from his locker and slams the door shut. “We need to tell someone about this.”

His statement gets absolutely no reaction at all, not even from Cartman, who is usually the first one to avoid authority figures. Stan’s now doing an admittedly accurate impression of his dad’s latest attempt to fit in with the younger generation, and Cartman’s laughing his ass off. Even Craig is smiling somewhat reluctantly. 

“Okay, what the fuck, guys?” Kyle stomps over to the middle of the group and holds his hand up in front of Stan’s grinning face. “I know you probably think I’m full of shit, but this is a big deal!” Again, there’s radio silence from his friends. “Well, I might as well be fucking invisible!” he finally yells, putting his hands on his hips.

Then Stan shifts away from the mirror propped up against the wall, and Kyle realizes that he _is_ invisible. There’s a huge gap in the center of the space where he’s standing, but nothing reflected in front of him. To make matters worse, no one seems to register that he’s missing at all. Kyle’s had a lot of unreal things happen to him over the course of his life, but he supposes he was stupid enough to think that it would all stop once he got older.

Craig finally takes a step back and surveys the locker room, frowns slightly, almost like he's reading Kyle’s mind. “Where’s Broflovski?” 

“I’m here!” Kyle shouts, waving his arms around uselessly. Craig doesn’t even so much as blink. “I’m right here!” 

“Kyle?” Stan calls out, checking the area behind him. “Maybe he went to the bathroom,” he suggests, his eyebrows knitting together in puzzlement. 

But Craig’s forehead wrinkles even more. “I swear I heard…” he mumbles, then he trails off and shakes his head. “Yeah, whatever, probably.” 

“As much as I hate to say this, we better get out there,” Kenny remarks. “Kyle’s right, Mr. Feegan’s freaking me out.”

“Scared, McCormick?” Craig shoots back, his lips curling upwards into a teasing smile, and, woah, is Craig actually flirting with Kenny? Kyle’s fucking invisible and this is still the weirdest thing he’s seen so far. 

“Guess you’ll have to hold me, Tucker,” Kenny replies, and this time it’s Cartman who speaks up.

“Kenny, goddammit, put your moves on him later,” he gripes, prodding Kenny in the direction of the hallway. “Get moving, you white trash asshole.”

“You can suck my dick when you’re done with Kyle’s,” Kenny says, throwing Cartman a grin over his shoulder, and Stan actually covers his ears with both hands. Craig falls in line last, and the mortified expression he’s wearing is echoed on Kyle’s unseen one. 

When Craig reaches the doorway, he takes one last glance around the seemingly empty locker room, shakes himself again, then walks away with the others.

With a fierce jolt to his spine, like all the air’s being sucked out of his lungs, Kyle falls onto the ground, hitting the tile and landing on his hands and knees. He breathes deeply, trying to control the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and when he lifts his head, his reflection is staring back at him, all rosy cheeks and disheveled hair. 

Kyle climbs unsteadily to his feet, waiting for his image to disappear again. When it doesn’t, he dusts himself off and walks backwards out the door, still trying to process the logistics of whatever the hell just happened.

—

It had taken the better part of the night for Craig to fully accept that he can somehow read minds. He’d spent most of dinner with his family trying to drown out his mom’s internal babbling about the new knives she’d picked up from the store, and discovered entirely way too much about what Tricia thought of the French exchange student who had transferred to her class the year before.

Truth be told, he still has no idea what to make of it. Ever since the Peru incident, he’d resigned himself to the strangeness that living in his hometown brings, but the idea of suddenly developing superpowers after getting stuck by lightning is still a little farfetched, even for the likes of South fucking Park.

The rest of the afternoon passes by slowly, and Craig spends most of it mashing up kidney beans and peeling potatoes, the look of disgust etched on his features reflected on everyone else’s. They all work mostly in silence, except for Craig, who no longer has that luxury.

Stan is, as usual, thinking about his girlfriend. More specifically, he’s conjured up an elaborate mental image of him as the star quarterback of their school’s football team, Wendy cheering him on from the stands as he hoists a huge trophy above his head. 

Cartman is, unsurprisingly, thinking about the redhead beside him. _What if I sing him another song? No, that’s too fucking gay. He is pretty gay, though._ Here he pauses and rubs his chin thoughtfully. _Nah, been there done that. Oh! I can kidnap his parents and then he’ll have to…_ This is where Craig tunes out. Cartman’s thought processes are completely warped, and he’s a little afraid of what he’ll find if he goes further.

 _Come on, Craig, when are you gonna give me the time of day?_ Kenny’s voice echoes inside his brain, crystal clear, and Craig has to keep his expression neutral as he lifts his head and meets Kenny’s wistful smile.

“Looking good, Tucker,” Kenny says, gesturing at the sections of his jumpsuit that are covered in white powder, the result of his struggle with a particularly stubborn bag of flour a few minutes earlier. Craig glowers at him and Kenny laughs. 

_This is insane. It’s totally fucking insane. What the hell is happening?_ Kyle’s steady stream of confused ramblings catches Craig’s attention, and he turns away, surveying Broflovski carefully. The look on his face is one of utmost concentration, his brow furrowed as he peels potatoes and throws them in a bowl. For his own part, Craig thinks, _Fuck it._

“After the storm,” he begins carefully, casually setting his knife down on the table, “did anything weird happen to you?”

Kyle immediately jerks his head upwards, dark green eyes staring intensely at Craig from across the table. “Why?” he asks cautiously, internally debating whether or not he should say anything. “Did something happen to you?”

“Wait.” This time it’s Marsh who interjects, his own tone curious. He leans forward and glances back and forth between Kyle and Craig. “You’ve been feeling weird, too? I thought it was just me.” 

Craig probes into Stan’s brain, searching for answers, but when all he gets is an image of his last Skype call with Wendy, he swiftly shuts him out.

“What the fuck are you all talking about?” Cartman cuts in, pausing mid-chop. “Nothing’s happened to me.” 

“Yeah, same here,” Kenny says, watching Craig expectantly. 

Craig ignores him, keeping his gaze fixed on Kyle. “Broflovski?” he prompts, hoping he’s not actually the only one alone in this. If he’s going insane, he’s going to take someone down with him.

But Kyle just shrugs in reply. “Forget it.” _If nothing happened to Cartman and Kenny, then it’s probably nothing._ His succeeding thoughts reveal otherwise, but Craig’s not about to jump in with a bunch of facts only he can hear, so he stays silent. 

“It’s probably just that Jersey blood of yours acting up again,” Cartman suggests innocently, his eyes wide. Kyle throws a handful of coriander at him.

Craig sighs and goes back to the task at hand, stuffing a huge handful of brown mush into plastic sleeves, all the while wondering how they’re supposed to convincingly pass these off as hotdogs. His mind is humming with a jumbled mess of words and pictures that aren’t his own, so when they run out of casing, Craig offers to go and get more in an attempt to clear his head.

He makes it halfway down the dimly lit corridor on the way to the supply room when he hears Kenny yell, “Hey, Tucker, wait up!”

Craig slows down and lets Kenny fall into step next to him. He’s currently going over the different possible reactions Craig would have should he decide to reach over and take Craig’s hand in his, the one he settles for being the most likely is Craig punching him in the stomach. Craig feels his own gut flip over as he thinks to himself, _Wrong._

“What is up with you?” Kenny eventually asks him, and there’s an undercurrent of curiosity and concern embedded in his tone. “You seemed pretty serious back there.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Craig says, mostly under his breath.

 _Hey, I die all the time and no one remembers. How’s that for unbelievable?_ Kenny thinks, and Craig has to fight to keep his appearance composed. What the fuck is he talking about? 

“Try me,” Kenny challenges out loud. “This town’s bizarre enough as it is, I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”

Fair enough. “Well—” Then he stops dead when the two of them turn a corner and find Mr. Feegan waiting in the middle of the hall, the air around him cold and overly sinister.

“Mr. Feegan!” Kenny exclaims, startled. “Uh, we were just—” he tries to explain, but with an inhuman growl, like something’s trying to crawl its way out of his chest, Mr. Feegan falls to the ground, his body spasming and writhing around on the floor. “Dude, what’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know.” Craig’s still trying to make sense of the indecipherable mess of phrases running through Mr. Feegan’s brain, all of them melding together until they no longer seem coherent. Then all of a sudden, his mind goes blank.

Mr. Feegan freezes, his body giving one last twitch, then he’s rising to his feet, his movements eerily slow. He stands in front of the two boys, his posture tense and alert, like a solider waiting for orders. His eyes are fully glowing green, the light from them reflecting onto the wall beside Craig. 

That’s when Craig hears it, that strange machine-like voice, echoing throughout his mind. _Targets: Non-vegans. Initiate attack in ten…nine…eight…_

“Kenny,” Craig says, on the verge of panicking. Kenny whips his head around to stare at him so quickly, he might have given himself whiplash. _Did he just call me Kenny?_ “We need to go.”

“What?” Kenny asks, beginning to freak out. “Why? What’s going on?”

But Kenny gets his answer six seconds later when something lodges itself into the wall nearest to them, a sickening crunch of crumbling plaster and cement. Despite himself, Craig chances a look, and is horrified to find that the object is Mr. Feegan’s life vest, thrown with such force that it’s dented the building. 

Just when he thinks things can’t get any worse, Mr. Feegan abruptly charges at them with a roar, and Craig blindly grabs onto Kenny’s hand and tugs him along, pulling him down the twisting mess of halls and windowless doors as they try to outrun the madman chasing after them.

Craig skids to a stop when he comes across an empty-looking cabinet, and he opens the door and shoves Kenny inside before slamming the entrance closed. Through the sliver of space in front of him, he peers outside, watching as Mr. Feegan moves past their hiding place, does a double take, then races off in the opposite direction. Craig exhales in relief. 

“What the fuck is happening?” Kenny gasps out, his breath coming out short. “How did you know he was about to attack us?

“I read his mind, okay?” Craig grits out, pressing his back flat against the door. “Yeah, I can read minds,” he adds in response to Kenny’s stunned silence. “It was that stupid fucking storm that did this.”

“You can read minds,” Kenny repeats warily, eyeing Craig like he’s waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, Kenny nods. “Okay, yeah, I guess you do.” _Wait, if he can read minds, does he know I like him?_ Then he winces in embarrassment. _Shit, he can hear that!_

“Sorry,” he begins awkwardly, a sheepish grin pulling at the ends of his mouth. “I know you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, McCormick,” Craig replies, the confession spilling from him without warning. Craig’s not entirely sure what exactly he feels when it comes to Kenny, but hate is definitely not one of them.

“I guess that secret’s out,” Kenny says with a sigh, somewhat self-deprecatingly. “I mean, you know that I like you,” he clarifies, when Craig turns to him with his eyebrow raised in question.

Kenny’s statement has more of an impact on him than he cares to admit. “But I’m such an asshole,” Craig points out, all of a sudden dizzy and a kind of absurdly happy. Which is really fucked up, considering their current circumstances.

“Nah, you just suck at expressing yourself,” Kenny counters, his voice teetering on the edge of a smile. “Which is—I’m friends with Cartman, okay. Shitty personalities don’t exactly turn me off.”

Craig’s never been more thankful for the relative darkness of any small space. “That’s a bit messed up.”

Kenny gapes at him in disbelief. “Dude, you tell me that you can read minds, and _I’m_ the one who’s messed up.”

Craig thunks his head against the wooden surface of the closet. “So it’s just me, then?” he prompts. “There’s really nothing going on with you?”

“Well,” Kenny starts, drawing the word out, “nothing that I don’t already know.” When Craig looks to him in confusion, he goes on. “I’m immortal,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the feel of his confession on his tongue. “Wow, it’s kind of weird saying that out loud, but, yeah. I die all the time and then wake up the next morning as if nothing happened.”

Craig makes to disagree, positive that he would at least notice if someone had died right in front of him, but one glance into Kenny’s brain reveals his numerous deaths and mysterious reincarnations. The pain of Kenny’s most recent death by stabbing echoes in his chest, and Craig flinches. “Shit, you’re not lying.”

Kenny shrugs, embodying the manner of someone who is too resigned by their fate to really take notice anymore. “It is what it is, I guess,” he concedes. “It just sucks dying all the time. It fucking hurts.”

“And no one remembers?” Craig asks, catching onto Kenny’s unspoken sentiment.

“I’m pretty sure Cartman does?” Kenny replies uncertainly. He rests his head against the back wall, staring up into the darkness. “God knows he should be the immortal one, nothing sticks to that asshole.”

Before Craig can respond, they both suddenly remember the situation they’re currently hiding from. 

“Fuck, we forgot to warn the others!” Kenny hisses, and then they’re pushing out of the doors and racing down the slippery halls, running as fast as possible towards where the rest are waiting.

“Mr. Feegan’s gone insane!” Kenny yells, dramatically bursting into the main hall and overturning a crate of potatoes stacked near the door, sending vegetables rolling across the floor. “He just tried to kill us! We need to get out of here.”

“Are you high?” Cartman, of all people, demands. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“He’s gone crazy,” Craig hurriedly tries to explain, his gaze darting every so often at the door in apprehension. “I read his mind. He’s turned into this bloodthirsty vegan programmed to kill.”

Cartman blinks at him. “Do you seriously expect me to believe that?”

“No, he’s right. Something really weird is happening,” Stan chimes in, his thoughts flying at a million miles per second. “Last night I was talking to Wendy and we got into an argument and—”

“Is now really the best moment to discuss how much you suck as a boyfriend?” Cartman cuts in, raising a hand in the air. 

“—suddenly everything froze,” Stan continues, ignoring him. “Then right in front of me, time rewinded to before her call!”

“What are you saying?” Cartman swivels from side to side, trying to search for the last remaining dregs of sanity left in the room. “What, you can somehow turn back time?” He laughs mockingly, the attempt sounding hollow and bordering hysterical. “That’s pretty fucking original, Marsh.”

“Well while we were in the locker room, I turned invisible!” Kyle bursts out, and everyone surveys him in surprise. Kyle had been suspiciously silent throughout the entire conversation so far, still trying to bridge cold, hard facts with what was currently happening right in front of him. In the end, logic had to be cast aside.

“It did seem like you appeared out of nowhere,” Stan acknowledges, his forehead furrowing in thought.

“Okay, will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Cartman finally yells, clearly at the end of his tether. “So, what, everyone here got struck by lightning and now you’ve got superpowers like some kind of all-gay Justice League?”

“You’ve faked your way through every stage of your life and _now_ you don’t believe us?” Kyle returns, his jaw clenching in vexation, as Stan yells, “Cartman, _you’re_ gay!” 

“I was in that storm, too,” Cartman counters, crossing his arms over his chest. “So where’s my so-called superpower?”

“Kenny doesn’t have one, either,” Stan points out.

“Nah, Kenny’s always had one,” Cartman instantly supplies, gesturing at him dismissively. “He can’t die.” 

This time, it’s Stan and Kyle who round on Kenny in shock. “ _What?_ ” they exclaim in unison.

But before Kenny can explain, the doors fly open, knocked against with such brutality that they swing off their hinges. Mr. Feegan storms in, one hand holding his life preserver in a death grip, and everyone screams before scattering in different directions. 

Without warning, he sends his life vest flying around the room like a boomerang, and it slices through the air, cutting the banners hanging from the ceiling in half and putting cracks in the walls. The life vest returns to its owner’s hand, and Mr. Feegan scans the room before charging after Kenny, who is trapped between two stacks of chairs. Time slows down and everything seems to stop for Craig, as he takes in Kenny’s wide eyes and panic-stricken last thoughts.

It’s instinct, it’s pure reflex, it’s Kenny latching onto Craig’s wrist, leading him out of harm’s way. It’s Kenny’s voice echoing in his head, telling him, _It fucking hurts_. Before he really knows what he’s doing, Craig’s running across the room, hurling bowls at Mr. Feegan’s back in an effort to distract him. 

It does. Mr. Feegan abruptly spins on his heels and stares Craig down, before letting out an angry roar and chasing him around the main hall. 

“Marsh!” Craig yells, ducking behind boxes, trying to avoid the life vest of doom. “Turn back time! Stop this from happening!”

“I don’t know how it works!” Stan practically shrieks back from his spot underneath the bleachers.

“That’s great!” Even while running for his life, the sarcasm in Cartman’s words manages to show through. “You’re super fucking useful!” he shouts from behind an overturned table.

“Sorry, what’s your power again?” Stan demands. “Being a super jerk?”

With another wild, furious howl, Mr. Feegan suddenly changes directions and heads straight for Kyle, who is backed into a corner with nowhere else to go. Craig runs as fast as he can, but the life vest is already whizzing towards Kyle as if in slow motion, and Kyle closes his eyes and thinks, _Bye_ , already bracing himself for the impact. 

There’s flash of movement from the right, Stan screaming, “Cartman, no!”, and before Craig can so much as blink, Cartman is diving in front of Kyle, the life vest hitting him squarely in the chest and slicing through his skin, and he lands on the ground with a _thud_ , blood seeping from the tear on his jumpsuit. 

Craig stills in place, too stunned and horrified to really make sense of the situation. Kenny’s watching Cartman bleed out helplessly, his jaw slack and his shoulders tense. 

But Kyle is a different story altogether. His eyes fierce and determined, it’s almost like he’s been possessed by some higher force because he barely hesitates before picking up a chair and bashing it over Mr. Feegan’s head, crying out in sheer anger and grief, and their batshit crazy supervisor finally slumps to the floor, unconscious.

Kenny is the first one to break the resulting silence. “Is—is he dead?”

“Well, you see the dent Kyle put in his skull?” Stan replies, his voice quaking.

They step over Mr. Feegan and circle Cartman’s body, Kyle sinking to the ground, trembling in inexplicable emotion. “We need to call nine-one-one,” he whispers hoarsely, not taking his eyes off Cartman’s blank features.

“Kyle,” Stan starts, swallowing tightly. “Think about what you’re saying. How are we gonna explain this?”

“Cartman is dead, Stan!” Kyle yells, pushing himself to his feet and stomping over to his best friend. Despite the outright fury reflected in his gaze, he pauses and sucks in a deep breath, seeming on the verge of tears. “He’s dead,” he repeats tonelessly, and Craig can see the hopeless and dejected look on his face mirrored on everyone else’s.

The heavy and oppressive quiet is broken by the sound of a weak cough coming from somewhere behind them. Spinning around in disbelief, the group rushes back to where Cartman’s body is lying. His cheeks are still pale and drained of color, but with a sudden wheeze and a sharp exhale, his eyes flutter open, his chest expanding as air miraculously fills his lungs once again.

“Cartman?” Kenny whispers, slowly creeping towards him and hardly daring to believe what he’s seeing.

Gasping like a fish out of water, Cartman lurches into a sitting position, holding a hand to the imaginary wound on his chest. He glances around the room, taking in the somber mood, their dead supervisor, and when his gaze finally lands on Kenny, he lets out a groan. “Aw, man! I don’t wanna have the same power as Kenny!”

Stan is the first to react. He takes a step forward and punches Cartman on the shoulder, while he yelps in surprise. “You’re a dick, Cartman!” he hisses. “What kind of shit were you trying to pull back there?”

“It’s not like I knew I was gonna wake up!” Cartman responds defensively, throwing his hands up in surrender. Then his attention shifts over to Kyle, who is standing stone-cold still, staring at Cartman furiously. “Jew?” he says hesitantly, and this is what it takes for Kyle to snap.

With a fierce bellow, Kyle charges at him and starts punching every inch of him that he can get his hands on. Cartman’s indignant cries echo throughout the room, mixing in with Kyle’s angry insults, and Craig thinks if he wasn’t still so confused by everything going on, he might’ve found the whole scene funny.

“What the fuck was that about, you stupid turd?” Kyle demands, practically tackling Cartman to the ground. “You give me shit for years, and then you have the balls to die saving my life and come back like nothing happened?”

“Hey, I didn’t fucking ask for this, Jew!” Cartman shouts back, finally pushing Kyle away and standing up. “And why the fuck are you so surprised? Everyone here knows that I give a shit about you except for you!”

This finally causes Kyle to pause in his attack, and one glance at his surrounding friends confirms Cartman’s statement. His breathing ragged, Kyle says, “That’s the second time you’ve saved my life, fatass.”

 _Third_ , Craig hears Cartman think, and then his mind is swimming with images of San Francisco, the Smug attack, Cartman dragging Kyle’s immobile form through the streets of a burning city. Holy shit.

“It’s the third time,” Craig speaks up, and everyone’s heads snap to look at him in complete shock, aside from Cartman, who is watching him fearfully. “He’s the one who rescued you from the Smug when we were kids,” he tells Kyle, who’s staring at him with an indecipherable expression. Stan sucks in a breath and Kenny presses his lips together, fighting a smile.

Without warning, without so much as a word, Kyle storms towards Cartman, a determined glint in his eye, and Cartman braces himself for another round of punches. But Kyle surprises everyone except Craig when he instead cups his hand around the base of Cartman’s neck and crashes their mouths together, the other one coming up to hold Cartman’s head in place.

For his own part, Cartman only freezes for a millisecond before kissing back hungrily, his fingers tugging at the zip of Kyle’s jumpsuit, bringing their bodies closer together. Kenny lets out a wolf whistle once they separate, Cartman’s lips curved into a helpless smile, Kyle’s cheeks burning with embarrassment when he catches the rest of them staring.

“Okay, show’s over,” Cartman finally says, clearing his throat. His arm is still wrapped protectively around Kyle’s waist, like he can’t quite believe it. “What are we gonna do about him?” he asks, nodding at Mr. Feegan.

“I saw a cooler out back,” Kenny informs them, shrugging. “We can leave his body there while we figure out what to do with him.”

Kyle nods. “Yeah, that’s—I can’t believe I killed someone.” He lets out a gusty sigh.

“Eh, bitch, I fed a guy his parents once,” Cartman replies with a scoff. “What’s one more death in this shit-hole town?”

The five of them make their way over to their dead supervisor, and Kenny is the first one to bend down, holding onto his shoulder in an attempt to move him on his side. The second Kenny’s hand comes into contact with Mr. Feegan’s skin, his eyes reopen with the flash of a greenish glow, and he rolls over, grabbing Kenny’s leg in a death grip. Everyone scatters again, and without thinking, Craig runs and grabs the fire extinguisher from the wall, hitting Mr. Feegan’s head repeatedly until it’s nothing more than a pile of mush.

“Is he dead _now_?” Stan demands, gripping his hair in shock. “What the fuck just happened?”

“I don’t know!” Kenny says, panting slightly. “I just touched him and then…” He looks down at his hands in horror, his eyes growing wide. “Oh my God.”

“Kenny, I think you can bring the dead back to life,” Kyle finishes for him. “This is fucking crazy,” he mumbles to himself, shakes his head. He straightens up, back to business. “Right, well, since Kenny can’t touch him, the two of you can stay and start cleaning up,” he tells Craig. _I owe you one, Tucker_ , he mentally adds, and Craig flushes.

With a fair amount of difficulty, the three boys hoist Mr. Feegan off the floor and drag him out into the hall, leaving Craig and Kenny alone in the middle of the room. Still trying to control his pounding heart from that last adrenaline rush, Craig bends over and rests his hands on his knees, breathing deeply.

“Why did you do that?” Kenny suddenly asks, the question bursting from him like he’s been keeping it in the whole time. Craig’s surprised that he managed to keep his thoughts from voicing it out. “Why did you save my life? You know I can’t die.”

Craig slowly straightens up and looks right at Kenny, taking in the fire in his blue eyes and how the air around them feels charged with the static of a coming storm. “Because I’m an idiot,” he answers, taking a step forward. “Besides, you mentioned how much you hated dying all the time.”

“Oh, so that’s it, then,” Kenny drawls, moving even closer. “This is all just some kind of pity thing.”

“Believe me, McCormick,” Craig breathes harshly. “The last thing I feel for you right now is _pity_.”

They’re now standing toe to toe, always watching each other carefully, challengingly. Then Kenny thinks, _Do it, Tucker_ , and that’s all it takes for Craig to stretch out and close the gap between their lips, his mouth parting beneath Kenny’s kiss and his hands holding onto either side of Kenny’s face, feeling him alive and real and here.

“Ha!” Cartman’s victorious crow breaks the two of them apart. “Pay up, Marsh.”

“What’s going on?” Craig says, trying and failing to keep a smile from breaking out across his features. He watches Stan dig into his pocket and slap a ten dollar bill onto Cartman’s waiting hand.

“Guess they had a bet put on us,” Kenny replies breezily, his own grin matching Craig’s tooth for tooth. “Who knew?”

Craig rolls his eyes. Kenny allows him to see into his mind, lets him feel the slow burning realization, uncover the hidden meaning behind all the teasing comments and remarks Kenny’s thrown at him over the years. “It’s not the huge crush you’ve apparently had on me forever, is it?” he intones, insurmountable happiness rising within him.

Kenny laughs fondly. “Nothing to do with that at all.” Then he reaches out and catches Craig’s chin with two fingers, curving them against his jaw and tipping Craig’s head towards his. He leans closer, breathes against his lips warmly, and kisses him again.

Stan grumbles about missing Wendy, Cartman pretends to retch, Kyle beams proudly, and Craig flips them off, thinking all the while that maybe it’s a good thing his life never goes the way he expects.

—

The roof of the community center is a strangely great place to hang out, what with the random assortment of furniture left over from when it was a shelter during the homeless invasion. There are a bunch of old couches clustered around each other, a reading lamp and a throw rug completing their makeshift living room.

Kyle’s sitting with his legs crossed on one of the beaten down couches, Cartman lounging next to him, his body radiating heat in the space between them. Stan’s leaning back on a lone deck chair, the edge of the roof overlooking the rest of their town, the sun setting in streaks of orange and pink, filling the sky and wrapping everything in its light.

The door to the roof swings open and Kenny and Craig emerge from within, cheeky grins on their faces and a six-pack of beer in each of their grips. Cartman’s gaze zeroes in on the alcohol and he instantly leans forward, making grabby hands at the cans. 

“Craig Tucker, you piece of shit, I knew you were good for something,” Cartman declares, taking the offered drink.

Craig rolls his eyes and falls down onto the loveseat across Kyle’s, his arm automatically draping itself over Kenny’s form. Kyle watches them together and thinks, _Yeah, they fit_. He almost misses the grateful and pleased smile that Craig sends his way.

“Guys, what are we gonna do now?” Kyle frets, hating to break the comfortable silence after all of the day’s activity, but he can’t help it. “We just killed Mr. Feegan! We’re supposed to be doing this for the next two months. How is that gonna work if we don’t have a supervisor—”

The rest of his tirade is cut off by Cartman tilting forward and pressing their mouths together, just a quick, chaste brushing of lips, but it’s still enough to get Kyle to calm down. 

“Jew, for once in your life, fucking chill,” Cartman says without heat. When Kyle actually does, he smirks. “Guess I finally found a way to shut you up.”

“Do you think there’s people like us all over town?” Kenny asks. He pulls the tab of his beer can open and takes a deep gulp. 

“For sure they haven’t got powers as cool as ours,” Cartman announces, his hand bumping into Kyle’s accidentally on purpose.

“Fucking hell, Marsh,” Craig interjects, glowering at Stan in annoyance. “Do you think of anything other than Wendy and the NFL?” he snaps, and Kyle bursts into laughter because Craig’s just hit the nail right on the head.

“You just used your power to save yourself again, didn’t you?” Kenny observes knowingly, and Stan gets to his feet and wanders over to the edge of the building. 

“Whatever this is,” he starts, grinning widely, “it sure is useful.”

“What if we’re meant to be, like, superheroes?” Kyle voices out, moving to stand next to his best friend. Cartman grumbles and walks over, and Kenny sets his beer down and drags Craig along to join them.

“Superheroes?” Cartman echoes with a scoff. From this angle, they can see the whole town lying below them, sparkling and distant and eerily beautiful. “In what kind of fucked up world would that happen?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Kyle reminds him, needling his fingers through Cartman’s, and in the light from the fading sun, the five of them standing side by side looking out over their dominion, Kyle thinks the long shadows behind them could almost be capes.


End file.
